


Waking Life (The Dreams of Summer Remix)

by boychik



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drabble, Dreams, M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-25 20:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12043551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boychik/pseuds/boychik





	Waking Life (The Dreams of Summer Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daegaer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Waking Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/41625) by [Daegaer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer). 



The golden light is rising and streaming through the open window. He opens his eyes slightly, squinting at the bright light. Motes dance in the sunny air, bringing with them the fresh scent of summer. He takes in a bevy of familiar objects—the lamp, the clock, their socks and swords equally neatly arranged. The soft breath of his lover is at his side. He is so sweet in sleep. His lashes jut out in a straight fan, forming a lace on his cheeks. They don’t have to go anywhere. The war is over. He rolls over, taking the other man in a hug.

*

They’re cruising down a road in a German car on the Italian coast. The top of the car is down, their hair rising in the breeze. The water glitters azure and the tall grass ripples as they drive by. “Pull over,” Feliciano says. “Right here.” They get out, stretch, then Feliciano pulls Ludwig into his arms and into a kiss, pinning him to the side of the car, hot with hours of shining in the sun. They’re making out, Feliciano’s tongue silver, darting, daring in his mouth. Then they hear the sounds of other cars passing by. 

Pinned to the doors of the car, they are visible from the road. Feliciano athletically removes his weight and swiftly ducks them down in one swift motion. He can feel Feliciano’s cowlick tickling his ear. He starts to babble so Ludwig covers his mouth. Feliciano takes his finger into his mouth and begins to turn it over curiously. “It isn’t pasta, you know,” Ludwig whispers. But he is quite taken by the sight and sensation of Feliciano with his finger, so lets it go. With the palm of his other hand, he presses his square palm to Feliciano’s slimmer one. Their palms flush, Ludwig closes his eyes.

*

He is swimming again, the water delightfully cool on his skin. A dragonfly buzzes above him, its sound mixed with the distant crying of bugs making him feel lazy and sleepy even as he paddles his way down the river. Green, lush leaves hang over the banks and dip into the water, spurring ripples. No one else is there, as always.

He has had this dream before. Too soon he will hear the stomping of black boots sweeping the land and the roil of tanks punishing the soil. Dragonflies are dropping from the air, deanimated, dead. A black smoke hangs in the distance. It does not dissipate. There is a wail of anguish that would be inhuman but for the heart underlying the sound. It goes on and on, more deafening than the mines, overpowering every sound until he cannot hear anything else. Even if he speaks—”Stop it, stop it!”—the wail continues. He has lost even the sensation of the cool waters of the river, the sensation of his own breath and heartbeat.

* 

It is night in some unknown stretch of beach and patch of wood. He has built a campfire with Feliciano, and they are cooking beans and sausages. The air is crisp and cool. He watches the smoke rise in a long gray line and dissipate into the darkness. Insects buzz in the distance but the fire keeps most of them away. After their meal, they stretch their legs, open some beers, and tell ghost stories. One of the tales appears to have set Feliciano off, because he cries: “I can be brave too. Do you dare me to jump in the water?” He is drunk, he is taking off his pants and rolling up his shirtsleeves and charging full steam toward the waves crashing on the shore.

The moon casts a long white light, illuminating the black water in its choppy waves.

“No!” he shouts, but Feliciano dives into the ocean. One, two, three...he runs up to the shore and climbs over a jutting overlook of rocks to get a better view. He thinks he sees him bobbing there twenty feet out, but it’s just an illusion. He plunges into the water. He does not return.

*

The bell rings for the end of the after-school program and kids flood out onto the rec field of the international school. “Ludwig!” Feliciano says, looking up at his best friend with huge brown eyes. “Let’s play football!” Before Ludwig can agree, Feliciano has already bounded away and started chatting with two sandy-headed blobs in the distance. And here he is, bounding back with the energy of a puppy playing fetch. “Arthur and Alfred want to play too!” he cheers.

They set up the field, a sudden furrowed brow and “This isn’t the football I know,” from Alfred, who does his best to go along with it anyway. Despite a series of hurried shouted instructions from Arthur, Feliciano scores on them, once, twice, thrice, passing to Ludwig encouragingly.

“We’ll beat you one day!” Arthur shouts as they’re walking off the field. “You wait and see!” Alfred beams and flashes them a V-sign.

He turns to Feliciano. The summer is starting, crowning the air with light dusk and lightning bugs. “That won’t be for a long time, he says, smiling in the gentle wind. “We make a good team.”

*

He is sitting in a meadow, having just awoken from a nap. The sweet sounds of a child singing wound a strain that rose him from his dream within a dream. He blinks his bleary eyes and looks around. He can just barely make out the melody from where he is sitting. As his eyes adjust, he realizes he has no idea where he is. But it’s a golden and beautiful field, birds and insects weaving and darting in the summer heat. Clouds drift lazily above his head. He sees the singing child spinning round and round and makes his way towards him.

He follows the melody until he’s within speaking range of the child. The child, spinning, catches his gaze and halts immediately halfway through another rotation.

The child chirps his introduction, rustling his skirts. “Who are you?”

He tries to introduce himself, but he has forgotten his own name.

*

They are fixing up their first house together as newlyweds. Right now, there is war on the horizon, but no one speaks of it. They have received days’ worth of telegrams from curious family and friends declaring their intent to pass through the country and visit for a few days. The guest bedroom is dull with peeling paint; Ludwig spent the morning stripping it bare and wafting the harsh fumes from the chemicals through the open windows.

“Let’s paint a mural,” Feliciano says, “trust me—” and all of a sudden the room is overtaken by cans of paint, bright blue and green and yellow, and Feliciano is slapping color on the walls with an easygoing hand. Within an hour or two the shape of an Alpine landscape begins to emerge. A sense of freshness overtakes the room despite the harsh chemicals. Feliciano must be getting bored with his project because their bodies keep brushing, then bumping up, as they work, too bold to be accidental.

All of a sudden again they are lying, rolling, breathing together. Ludwig feels the weight of Feliciano’s body on top of him. How lovely was Feliciano, laughing, paintbrush dangling from splayed fingers, blue paint on his nose and yellow paint on his cheek like a drop of alpine sky. How lovely was he spilling moans as Ludwig gives him kisses and nips to his face and ears and neck and— Now, they are stretched under the painted grass, laying side by side. Feliciano turns his face. They are nose to nose, and the gesture rubs a hint of paint onto Ludwig.

“After the war is over, I’m going to leave you,” Feliciano says.

“What?” says Ludwig.

“What?” says Feliciano.

*

They have begun to go out together, he and the child, to explore the lands and draw. Sometimes they sit in the meadow sketching the trees. Other times they take palettes and head south to the riverbank, settling in and capturing shades of blue and green, shifting and deepening in the changing light. His lines are clumsy, his hands untrained, but the child points out techniques and details he misses on the first pass. Sometimes his cheeks burn thinking of taking advice from this tiny child who mewls and sings, but sometimes he is awed. Since the day he accepted wood and charcoal from the child, he has enjoyed his gentle, spirited company.

*

Feliciano sees Ludwig from across the battlefield. Ducked down low, hair slicked back, eyes piercing, he fires. The smell of gunpowder fills the air and stings his lungs. Ludwig puts down his gun for a moment and looks directly at Feliciano. He wants to shout “What are you doing!” but instead his heart leaps in his throat. Ludwig turns his attention back to the battlefield and all of a sudden he feels weary. He sees them as children, a mirage transposed on the battlefield, dancing in the meadow, his own green skirts flying as his friend stumbles and tries to keep up. Friends, then enemies, then friends again...how long and vast was their history. He remembers back to simpler times, when they took a trip to the Mediterranean and spent a week on the beach and in the waters. The feel of Ludwig’s embrace, lifting him up by day and holding him down by night. Hand-feeding him olives on the sand, watching the stars come out. Yes, that was a simpler time. He had felt so secure back then, like nothing was at stake. 

*

It is time for him to leave. The sky is overcast and gray. A chill permeates the atmosphere. The child is sniffing, the first wetness leaking from his eyes and nose. 

“I’ll come back someday,” he promises the child. He speaks quickly, but his words inevitably trigger the child’s sobs. The world ahead is dark, darker perhaps than the things they’ve seen over years of being born and reborn. The child, bawling, throws himself face-first into a hug, and he tentatively wraps his arms around his shoulders and back. He is so small in his arms.

He stays there five beats, then gently untangles himself from the child. He fits their palms together as they have done so many times. Square to oval. Oval to square. “Don’t worry,” he says, the words falling easily, uselessly from his lips. The child sniffs. He leaves the door open, just a crack, to let a piece of light shine through.


End file.
